IT wasna near so bad as I’d feared at the inn, for the old men were
gone with their droves, and the Camperdines were by this at their
dinner. It is often so, if you are in heavy dread of summat and yet
brave it, and behold! it is nought. The landlord and his missus,
thinking little of us, sent the maid-servant to wait on us—a
frightened, simple creature, like Miller’s Polly, and nothing to be
feared of. We had the parlour to ourselves, for folk go home early from
Lullingford market in the winter, seeing what the roads are, even to
this day. I was glad of the red fire and the steaming tea, after the
sadness of that house with its dead light.
Gideon began to talk after a while, very slow, and as if the words cost
gold.
“Now, Prue, I’ve gotten a deal to say, and if we dunna want to be
benighted, I’d best start. You know as me and Jancis have taken up
together in good sadness?”
“Ah.”
“I didna think to care about any wench like I do about that girl, Prue.
Catches at a chap’s vitals, she do. I never meant to go furder than a
bit of fun. I didna reckon to marry, nor yet I didna mean lawless love.
I meant fair by Jancis, and so long as we had our Sunday evenings it was
all right. When there’s no gainsaying there’s no burning in the blood.
Gainsay, and the blood’s on fire. Afore old Beguildy found us out we
were contented enow and as innicent as two pinks on a stem.”
“And still be that last,” I says.
“Ah.”